


No time but our own

by starbox



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon Compliant, Dissociative Amnesia, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, memories of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-17 15:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14835224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbox/pseuds/starbox
Summary: Oh don't you tire your restless soulYou're running, you're runningIn place, you're going nowhere fast, you knowCalm and lay down your restless soul“restless soul” - FlorIn Wakanda, Bucky wakes up and starts putting himself back together. It's just as well he doesn't know there's another clock ticking on his new life.





	1. Present

**Author's Note:**

> This starts at the end of "Captain America: Civil War" and will end with what happens in "Avengers: Infinity War." I wrote this, as much as possible, to be MCU canon-compliant but of course it involves my interpretation of events and characters for the spaces in between what we know. 
> 
> Thank you to my friend Nimbus_Cloud, who despite being a DC fan was kind enough to agree to beta my Marvel fic. You’re a true superhero.

 

 

 

He can sense the sunlight on his skin long before he feels awake enough to open his eyes. Sunshine is… nice. There was never any when he had woken up in the past. Before the last few years—before _the man on the bridge—_ all he had known was the chill seeping into his bones as he was locked away or the press of the coffin-like cryotank as he came back to life. He had been moved from country to country, shuttled through year to year, leaving only unmarked bullet casings and chaos in his wake.

He keeps his eyes closed for just a bit longer. He needs to figure out if he can remember where he is on his own. The memories come back quicker than before—he is pleased at that—but they aren’t all that comforting.

 

*    *    *

 

He recalls being in Siberia, and how the blank looks of death on Hydra’s other assassins had scared him. There was certainly no lost love between them, but the thought of dying while in that purgatory state unsettled him more than he had anticipated. There was no way to block a bullet you can’t see coming. But this Zemo seemed to have a knack for catching all of them off guard. None of them, not Hydra, nor the Avengers, had been prepared for the Serkovian. The man’s calm voice had pried them open slowly until something unbidden had been released. Stark’s violent anguish. Steve’s increasingly brutal loyalty. His own desperation.

There had been a few moments—not even moments of thought, just feeling—when he had wondered if allowing Stark a vital hit might not be the better path. He deserved this, even if he had never wanted to hurt Stark’s parents. He had done it. And what he had done was still destroying Stark and Steve and all these people’s lives. Maybe he should just let Stark end it…

But he never could. Not after all this. Not when Steve was finally _right there_ , looking him in the eyes, yelling at him to go— _Get out of here!_

He had a glimpse of himself screaming back _Not without you!_ across a pit of fire— _ah but that’s a memory within a memory_. He also recalled the anger that the man he was before had felt that his best friend would even think he could leave him behind.

In Siberia though, he hadn’t felt that compunction. Perhaps there had been too much of the Winter Soldier still left in him to disobey. Or maybe, he knew now, that Steve would always come for him. That golden-haired boy from Brooklyn, whom he had sworn to follow through hell or high water, was now chasing after him. And if he had been prepared to be stubborn in his devotion, he knew that Steve probably had him beat there too. Not even the laws that Captain America had sworn to uphold gave Steve Rogers much pause these days.

So he had run, climbed as fast as he could, hit Stark as hard as he dared. The mechanical arm practically moved on its own, so strong was his reflex to protect himself. He didn’t want to die. And he didn’t want anyone else to either. _Please, Steve, no one else. Not because of me._

If the Iron Man wasn’t a threat, Steve would leave. So he jammed his metal fist into the glowing heart of Stark’s suit and lost the whole damned arm in the process. The loss of it was nothing compared to the horror of gaining it in the first place, but ricocheting off the wall did a number on his head. At the end, his mind had been whirling, both confused but sure. _He will stop running when he finds the Winter Soldier. We can stop running when he catches me._

He hadn’t been wrong really. When it was over, Steve was suddenly there, arm around his back, holding him up. T’Challa had been waiting for them at the door of the cave and had invited them back to Wakanda. Steve had looked down at him, and he had just shrugged (as well as he could with an injured shoulder) and so Steve had said yes, for the both of them. T’Challa was their best bet anyway. He did not care who might demand Steve’s extradition and, even better, he said he would let Barnes stay.

 

Steve’s blue eyes always looked distinctly stormy when he was upset, but Bucky had weathered worse storms than this. Steve was also pacing like he had ants in his pants, but that was also pretty standard procedure. _This boy can’t stand still. Never could._

They had been in Wakanda for all of a day and a half, and they had slept for 75% of it. Bucky was honestly a bit surprised he had been able to sleep so much. But he was not ignorant of the fact that hearing Steve’s steady breathing on the other side of the room might have something to do with it. Keeping to themselves, they had walked in the palace garden not saying much of anything and then discussed their options back in the spacious guest suite. Once Bucky had pried out of T’Challa that the Wakandans could put him back in cryostasis, he knew that was what he wanted. He also knew that Steve would dislike it immensely.

They argued for what seemed like hours. Steve never raised his voice, but he didn’t have to with his increasingly colourful vocabulary and hardening body language. Bucky knew, even if Steve could never quite say it, that what nettled him the most was this felt like giving up.

“Stevie,” he had finally said, the start to one last appeal.

“I thought I told you not to call me that.”

“That was the 1920s though, so I figured you’d be over it.”

Steve almost smiled, but then seemed to remember they were fighting.

“Will you just listen to me?” asked Bucky before Steve could jump in again. “You gonna let me have my say?”

Steve had the grace to look slightly contrite, so Bucky continued.

“Look, you gotta go clean up Hydra, right? And as much as you definitely need someone watching your dumb ass, what you _do not need_ is a potential double agent in your own unit. We don’t know if there’s a file somewhere with another set of trigger words. We don’t know if there’s some Hydra goon out there who’s got the training to revert me.”

“But Buck—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you can handle it. But this isn’t all about you, Steve.”

_Which is only halfway true but I gotta make him listen while I can remember how we used to do this. Before things fade again._

Bucky hopped up off the couch and came to join Steve by the floor length windows. The wide grasslands curving up into low hills in the distance were like nothing he had ever seen before. He couldn’t help but pause a moment to drink it all in. Standing this close, he could feel the warmth coming off of Steve; he ran so hot thanks to that super serum. He could also sense the responding restlessness thrumming under his own skin. _They tried to make you, Steve, but all they had was me._

Bucky tried again, voice quieter. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I can’t take that chance.”

Steve nodded but didn’t say anything.

“You find their codes and destroy them, then problem solved, I guess. Or someday, someone will figure out a way to get rid of whatever they did to me…”

Steve was still facing the window, but he uncrossed his arms and clenched his fists.

“Bucky, I just…”

Steve fell silent and the man next to him searched through fading memories for something that the Bucky from _before_ would have said. The memories of his days bossing around the Howling Commandos had come back more easily than he thought they would, and it came in handy now. 

“You ain’t leaving me, Steve. I’m _ordering_ you to go kick some Hydra ass and let me get some damn rest.”

Steve broke into a smile at this and before he could dodge it, a heavy arm was around Bucky’s shoulders.

“I’ll be back before you know it, Buck.”

Bucky made a scoffing noise and earned only a tight squeeze for his troubles. A particularly inspired bit of memory touched the edge of his mind a moment later.

“Well,” he drawled, “At least you won’t have to worry about any ‘Dear John’ letters when it’s just me waiting for you.”

Steve gave a wry chuckle, but he reddened in a curious way that Bucky filed away for consideration.

 

*    *    *

 

The last thing Bucky remembered seeing before the technicians had told him to close his eyes was Steve. Steve looking worried, but trying so very hard not to show it. He wonders now, when he opens his eyes again, if Steve will be there again. But the quiet of the room, though not unnatural, doesn’t seem to bode well for that. _Alright, you just gotta do it, Barnes._

He opens his eyes. He is lying on something akin to an operating table but he isn’t restrained. This fact calms his heartbeat. He is dressed in the thin outfit he had changed into earlier before going into cryo, but he doesn’t feel cold. Moving his head, he can see the table is within a sort of half domed cupola, with something like a screen directly above and behind his head. He can see past his feet out of tall windows and he interprets the slant of the light to mean that it’s probably early afternoon. A rustle of fabric and soft footsteps come from his left and he looks over quickly. A young woman is walking toward him and she smiles when she sees he is awake. She is dressed all in white and her dark hair is done up in fantastically complicated braids that he can’t for the life of him figure out.

“You like these?”

He blinks at her words in confusion and she laughs.

“I’m not about to let you copy my look.”

_Shit, she caught me staring._

He makes a move to sit up and she closes the gap between her and the table.

“Nuh-uh! Stay there a moment.”

He does as he is told.

“This setup is for a medical scan. I’m gonna make a full map of your upper torso and head.”

“You’re a nurse?”

She raises a sharp eyebrow at him, and shakes her head.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “You just seem young for a doctor.”

She glances at him, considering.

“You weren’t making assumptions because I’m a girl?”

“All the women I’ve known have been smarter than me,” he replies easily, but it’s a line that tastes strange in his mouth.

_It’s not a lie though, since I only know two women right now. Steve’s friend Natasha, and that one named Sharon, who must have been smart if she was working the task force that caught me…_

He can see the young woman in front of him relax, her shoulders drop the slightest bit.

“I’m Shuri, by the way, T’Challa is my brother,” she says. “And I’m in charge of everything in this lab. Including you, for the time being.”

_The princess of Wakanda… is helping me?_

“How long have I been out? Is... Steve here?”

She shakes her head. “Nope, just you and me.”

He realizes she is manipulating a model of his brain right above him and it’s an odd feeling.

“I’m sorry you had to go into cryo at all. My stupid brother—don’t tell him I said that—didn’t think to let me know in time. You’ve only been asleep about four days.”

“Four…? But why… Has something happened to Steve?”

Shuri lays a careful hand on his shoulder, slowly so he can see it coming.

“Nothing to worry about. The only thing that’s changed is that I’m back from visiting aunties and I need a new project.”

She begins pulling apart the model brain. He looks away toward the windows.

“If you’ll let me, Sergeant Barnes, I’d like to try some new therapy I’ve been developing. Nonintrusive, no needles, no wires or anything nasty. All I can promise is that the brain damage those horrible people did to you will be gone. And I’m pretty sure their trigger words won’t work anymore.”

She pauses in her investigation and looks him right in the eyes.  

“From there, it’s up to you though. Memory is a weird thing. Even I don’t know entirely how it works—especially in your case, which is pretty unique.”

“I figured.”

“So you up for it?”

He grins sharply, an expression that feels familiar.

“Alright, let’s see what you can do.”

 

Shuri is, as he comes to learn, true to her word. She offers to put him under anesthesia for the procedures but he asks her not to.

“If it’s not going to hurt that much, I’m fine. I’d rather—it’s not that I don’t trust you—but I want to know what you’re doing.”

She nods, looking slightly solemn..

“I understand.”

“Besides, this stuff is fascinating,” he quips. “All these floating diagrams, it’s still like science fiction to a guy like me.”

She lets out another bright laugh.

“Trust me, it’s still like sci-fi to most of the world.”

As he lies there, she warbles on about Wakanda’s scientific advances and the sad state of comparative technology in other nations. Bucky really does find it thrilling to listen to. Her words pull up the memory of the science expo he had taken Steve to the night before he had set off for England. An image of Howard Stark’s flying car makes its way to the forefront of his mind and a smile quirks at his lips. _The times sure have changed._

“Do you have flying cars?” he asks a moment later.

She grins but shakes her head.

“Yes and no,” she says. “Here in Wakanda we use personal transportation that can get some pretty good altitude. So yeah, pretty much like a flying car. But the rest of the world is still working on hovering jetpacks that don’t explode.”

“Stark seems to have flying down pretty well.” _Annoyingly, painfully well, actually._

“Stark?”

“Tony Stark? He makes weapons, or he used to anyway. He has robot suits.”

Shuri thinks a moment.

“Oh, Stark Industries? They’re doing okay for themselves, yeah. Kind of an unfocused R&D department though. I get notifications on their patent registries and they’re all over the place! But they seem to have made great progress with AI.”

“AI?”

“Artificial intelligence. Quick and dirty definition, it’s how computers and robots think. Unlike the movies though most people don’t use the strong AI in humanoid robots, they put it in computers to help make sense of all the data on the internet.”

Bucky has a vague idea what the internet is because the Winter Soldier’s handlers had used it. He had seen them access it on laptops and, this past year, on phones with screens. Some of them had shown him maps on the phones too but he wasn’t sure if those were on the internet or stored on the device. Safety protocols had never allowed him to access it himself.

“Do you work with AI, Shuri?” He realizes a second later he has just addressed a princess by her first name, but she doesn’t even seem to notice so he figures it must be fine.

“I have definitely messed around with some, but most of our tech is still very human-centric. We develop tech that connects us to our land and to each other.”  

She rattles the beads on her wrist, and they glow with symbols he can’t read. (The Winter Soldier can’t read them either, so it’s officially a language he’s never seen before.)

“There is a certain amount of AI in the systems running the city because it makes things easier,” she continued, “but father likes—liked—there to be people in charge of making the important decisions. And I suspect my brother will be like him, so I won’t pursue it too much. Which is fine, I’m more interested in stuff like this.”

She waves her hands at the scan of Bucky’s brain and shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

She frowns for a moment, then says, “We know it wasn’t you.”

“But he died because Zemo wanted to find me. I’m sorry your family was caught up in it.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Sergeant Barnes, but I accept your sympathy.”

She touches his shoulder gently.

“Now stay still and close your eyes, I’m almost done.”

She said she was using radiation on him, and he knows that will be like an x-ray but other than that he was unsure what it would entail. It feels fine though, nothing at all like what Hydra did to him. He can sense her nearby even when his eyes are closed and he realizes that, to his pleasant surprise, he finds that reassuring.

 

Shuri orders him to rest afterward. He is allowed to listen to music and read books, but that is about it. When he picks up _Moby-Dick_ from among the Penguin Classics she brings him, she makes a face but doesn’t say anything. He discovers that Ishmael is a really long-winded guy and he ends up putting it down a lot to just pace the room.

A couple days pass and Bucky realizes that he doesn’t have the headaches now that he had before. The pain had become such a part of his waking hours that he had stopped noticing. Its absence improves his mood slightly, despite what remains to be faced.

What Shuri did for him hasn’t affected his nightmares, so he isn’t sleeping any better than before. His current lack of exercise means his body isn’t even tired out in a way that forces him to rest. By the time she comes back to check on him, his perpetual dark circles are even worse.

“Your brain’s healed up well,” she announces, after a brief scan. “I think we’ve gotten you past the actual brainwashing thing.”

He nods but doesn’t have anything to add.

“But, as for everything else…”

She produces a black notebook and a small electronic device from her pockets.

“This is just a first step, but I think you should probably be writing stuff down.”

He accepts the notebook she hands him. It’s a little nicer than the one he had picked up for himself in eastern Europe.

“I’m no expert on post traumatic stress,” she admits. “But I know for many people talking it out is a big part of moving forward. You, Sergeant Barnes, are not the most chatty guy though and you probably don’t want to tell me about—well, any of it. So for now, journaling is the next best option.”

She then hands him the small device—a smart phone, he realizes.

“Well, third best option, I guess? Because your second best option is to talk to the one person I know you trust. Steve.”

Bucky looks up from his examination of the phone.

“He’s got a phone just like this,” she assures him. “The whole system is Wakandan, uses our satellites or bounces off ones we know are secure. You can call him if you want.”

“You’ve told him I’m awake...?”

Her eyebrows jump. “Oh shit, he might not know… ”

“I don’t want to compromise him if he’s on communications blackout.”

“Yes, of course. Let me check with T’Challa and get back to you.”

 

When Steve had found him in Bucharest, he had accused Bucky of lying, convinced he must know why he had pulled Steve out of the Potomac. As usual, Steve had been inconveniently discerning, but it also wasn’t as simple as knowing or not knowing anymore. He had rescued Steve because there was, deep within himself, in a place Hydra had never found, an unexplainable drive to just keep this man from dying.   

Bucky’s memories are still a patchwork wreck. _I know what it feels like to have his spindly arms curled around my neck. I don’t remember what my favorite kind of music is._ He still isn’t sure what Steve means to him, and frankly even trying to figure out what he means to Steve just makes his head spin. He knows the facts of his life from the museum and a file that Steve had let him read. He continues to remember images and pieces of conversations that fit those facts and expand that life. He understands that he is James Buchanan Barnes, but as often as not he does not _feel_ like he is.

On bad days, it’s like looking in on the life of another person. He can can empathize with this man--he even likes him. This person was brave and charming, a crack shot and a protective big brother. He wants to be that person, in no small part because he knows that Steve misses that Bucky more than he will say. The idea that he can never fully be that man again terrifies him, but equally discomforting is the realization that he could probably pretend to be him if he had to and few would ever know.     

   

Bucky wakes up from yet another dream of falling, soaked with sweat. He couldn’t tell which time it was supposed to have been. They all blend together at this point. Sometimes Steve is there—broken and plummeting out of his grasp or reaching out to save him—but this time he had been alone.

Bucky rolls over and sits up. He is a pile of blankets laid over the plush carpet of his room. He had abandoned the bed on the second night after being awoken by Shuri. The silence of being alone in this room is like that of the warehouses where they used to store him, so he sleeps with the windows open to let in the nighttime sounds.

The phone that Shuri gave him is lying on the floor, off the edge of the carpet. He taps at it idly and it lights up. Earlier that day, Shuri had told him that T’Challa had informed Steve of Bucky’s current condition. There had been no response so they figured he was in the middle of something important. Bucky stands and wraps himself against the chill in a caftan from a nearby chair. Time for some pacing on the veranda since apparently his brain is not going to let him sleep. He brings the phone with him and places it on a chair on the balcony.

The stars are beautiful in Wakanda, but he is also just partial to the night sky. He has gone on more than his fair share of night missions so perhaps that’s why he finds the stars comforting. All the time he had been asleep was nothing to them. No matter the time or place, he was able to recognize their patterns and find his way back. _Though many, if not more, of those missions were the Winter Soldier’s rather than mine._

He has remembered, and has noted in his journal, a few nights this dark from the European front. They are mostly pleasant memories because when they had time to look up at the stars they were usually in a relatively secure position or behind the lines. His mind fixates on one particular memory when the sky was clear and the air was chilly. He recalls Steve sitting by his side; the two of them were sharing a tin mug of truly awful coffee. Steve had just tried to give him his officer’s gloves and Bucky had refused. _They don’t match my outfit, Rogers. For an artist, you sure have no sense of style._ He hears the words like they’re from a film, in a tenor voice light with flippancy that his tongue can’t manage now. _A whole lifetime ago._

A buzzing sound makes him freeze, his fight-or-flight response rocketing. He checks around him in a 360 degree swoop and realizes it’s the phone on the chair. He blinks at it and then drops the caftan to dash over and pick it up. _Steve._

“Hello?” he says. There’s rustling on the other end, then silence. He waits.

“Bucky…?” Steve sounds like he nearly choked getting that one word out. “Bucky, is that you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.”

Some background noise and then the sound of movement. Steve is probably going to another room.

“I called as soon as I could. We were in the middle of an opt when… I’m sorry I couldn’t—”

“Shut up, Steve. I get it.”

Something like laughter, close to his ear but so distant. Then Steve’s voice becomes concerned again: “How are you feeling?”

Bucky explains what Shuri has done for him.

“So they can’t control you anymore?” _Just like Steve to skip over “the how” and get to “the what.”_

“That’s the working theory anyway. Clearly, there’s no good way to test it though.”

“That’s wonderful, Buck!”

He can imagine Steve’s face, that smile.

“Are you remembering more…?”

“There’s no speeding that sort of thing up.”

“Right, I suppose not.”

“Steve…” _There’s no use in sugar-coating it._

“Yeah?”

“I can’t control the memories. My memories will come back, but then some of his come back.”

“His…?”

“The Soldier. As the gaps fill in, I remember what he did—what I did. I see their faces. I can’t remember my own tent mate from boot camp, but for some reason I remember all their faces.”

“Bucky…”

He can hear that telling Steve this is hurting him, but he can’t help it. It’s like he’s coughing up water after nearly drowning. He’s just trying to breathe.  

“Nothing’s really changed since Bucharest. I… I have to wrap myself in a blanket to sleep because if I wake up even a bit cold I panic. The only reason I know I’m not dreaming when I wake up is because of the birds… I never recognize them so I figure my brain couldn’t make them up.”

“Buck, I’m so sorry...”

“Yesterday…” His own voice sounds distant to him. “I caught myself wondering if my next handler will be less manipulative than Peirce.”

It slips out without him meaning to and it’s too much.

Steve’s voice is close to breaking. “I’m coming back.”

He continues speaking but Bucky doesn’t hear what he says.

_Is that what I want? Yes. But is that best?_

_fuck what’s best, i need him_

_No, you need to protect him._

“Steve.”

“What? What is it?”

“You should stay there. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, I am, Rogers. You better wipe Hydra off the face of the earth.”

“But…”

“You’re the only one who can do what you do.”

“Buck, you can’t just tell me this and then expect me—”

“You stubborn asshole, will you just do this for me?”

“I left _for you_ in the first place! I let you go back into cryo and now you’re saying it’s like nothing’s changed?”

“Don’t you dare say you _let me_ do anything, Rogers! After 70 years of having no choice in anything, I fucking chose this!” He realizes he’s close to shouting.

“I’m sorry, no, I… that wasn’t what I meant…”

“And you know damn well you went because you wanted to! You’d go mad if you weren’t hunting them down.”

There is only a small sound of agreement. Bucky knows he’s won this. He looks at the stars that stretch out above him and heaves a sigh.

“Stevie,” Bucky lets the nickname slip out gently. “I don’t need you to save me. I need you to make sure this never happens again.”

Steve gulps a sudden breath.  

“I have to do this myself. And I don’t know how long it will take or… if I will ever be the same again.”

“Buck…”

“But you protected others from the Winter Soldier before, back in DC and Berlin. Now it’s my turn to take him on, alright?”

He can sense Steve is probably close to getting weepy on the other end so he tries for a joke.

“Besides, the guy only likes speaking Russian and you’d mangle that.”

“My French is better than before…”

“Je l'espère bien, Capitaine,” he scolds.   

A pause and then, in a soft voice, “I missed you, Bucky.”

Steve’s honesty cracks his bravado. He thinks it probably always has, though that’s something else he can’t truly remember.  

“Well, I missed you too, pal.”

Bucky hears what sounds suspiciously like a sleeve being rubbed over a stubbly cheek.

“But you shouldn’t have to do this alone, Buck.”

“Steven Grant Rogers, I swear to heaven…”

“I just want to help.”

Bucky sighs. “You are, you idiot. Right now, that’s what you’re doing.”

“Is this enough…?”

“You’re the only person I can talk to about all this.”

“Okay… But you will tell me if that changes?”

“I’m planning on getting better, not worse, Steve, give me some credit.”

A snort of almost laughter. They don't say anything for a bit, content just knowing the other is there.

“I’m gonna send you postcards,” Steve says suddenly.

“You’re gonna what?”

“You always liked foreign postcards.”

“Aren’t you on the run? You shouldn’t be sending me anything that could be tracked.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“You’re such a punk.”

This rush of annoyance and the way his chest feels tight with affection—it’s not something he remembers, it’s something he feels.

“I’ll send them out of order,” says Steve. “The postcard won’t match my location. And I’ll send them to an address that T’Challa approves.”

Bucky has to admit that might be okay. “Fine, knock yourself out.”

“If I can’t be there, I still want to share things with you. Things only we know.”

“Yes, us and every post office worker from there to here, pal.”

“Bucky!”

He can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes him at the innocent outrage in Steve’s voice. He doesn’t have a memory like this, but he can well imagine it. And what’s better is that he knows—here in the present—he knows this is real. He realizes, for the first time since waking up, he’d like to remember right now.


	2. Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are so many things Bucky left unsaid because it was never the right time--they were too young, they weren’t alone, they were fighting a war--and here it is, the time to say them, and he’s still not sure he can find the words he needs. Steve is waiting though; he has to say it. If he doesn’t now, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’ll regret it. 
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the friend who sends me distracting tweets about MCU actors while I’m at work and with whom I developed the mini headcanon that Steve and Bucky like the particular Spielberg movie that’s mentioned in this chapter.
> 
> This is the domestic fluff chapter!

 

 

Growing up in Brooklyn, he had never figured he would end up on a farm. But then again, other than knowing he wanted to enlist in the army Bucky had never thought much about his future. He had been in his twenties, healthy, surrounded by people who loved or wanted him; he had figured it would work out well enough. It was nearly laughable how in the end precisely nothing had gone as expected. That started with Steve--newly strong and thinking he was bullet-proof--showing up on the battlefield. He was never supposed to have been there.

As part of remembering, Bucky’s doing some research too. Apparently, Natasha had released a lot of documents onto the internet after the fall of SHIELD. The Avengers had collected many that seemed pertinent, and it seems the Wakandans had as well. Shuri had given Bucky access to the royal archives early on to help with his postoperative boredom. Ever since, he has been slowly working his way through all the information he has the clearance for. He has been through all of the Avengers files at least twice, but of course he reads over Steve’s the most.

Last night, while perusing it for the dozenth time, he had finally remembered the day Steve had come home with his first “4F” classification. Bucky had made some teasing comment and grabbed him in a headlock, face to his chest, so that if he had wanted to cry they could both pretend he wasn’t. Steve wanted so bad to do his part; Bucky knew he had never hated his own body so much. Bucky recalled only a warm rush of relief that Steve wouldn’t be able to martyr himself in his parents’ memory. But after a moment, the younger boy had pulled away from his best friend and he had known with a sinking feeling that this wasn’t the end of it. Now here he was, making do with one arm and a faulty memory while Steve was taking out bad guys all around the world.  

Living in the village away from the capital had been Shuri’s idea, but the garden had been all him. He wanted to be doing more than just helping out around the village. He loved learning all they had to teach him about Wakanda and its customs, but he wanted something to call his own.

“I want to grow, I don’t know, plums or something,” he had told Shuri one day.

“You want a garden? Or like a whole orchard?”

“Nothing too--”

“They always need more shepherds there. I’ll tell them to give you a dozen goats!”

“What…?”

Months later, it seems normal. He wakes up at the break of day, feeds a motley assortment of goats, checks his garden, and then walks into the village for breakfast. The villagers are kind enough to allow him to join them for their morning and evening meals in the communal space. All in all, he is managing well with only one arm, but cooking for one is still more trouble than it’s worth. Besides, this way he can try a new dish nearly every day, which is helpful when he’s trying to figure out what he likes to eat again.

A trio of children join him the moment he is within sight of the village. He had caught them watching him from a nearby tree a week ago and impulsively waved at them. They had rushed off screaming and laughing, but had returned the next day with some colorful fruit they had made clear was for him. In his mind, they are the Three Musketeers or the Three Stooges, depending on how much they are getting on his nerves.

“White Wolf! White Wolf!” they call to him in a ringing chorus.

He’s figured that’s what his name is but he has no inkling as to where it originated. The girl grabs for his hand and he lets her take it, leaving his grip loose around her tiny fingers.

“Is it going to rain today?” he asks the tallest boy. He doesn’t know where they get their information but they always seem to know what the weather will be.

“In the afternoon!” the boy replies.

_Better get everything done early today._

The moment he reaches his destination, an open air construction much like a long barn filled with tables, his escort party leaves him. He has never seen them with their families; they may even all be siblings, though he suspects not. Just kids of the same age who run together because it’s more fun than being alone. Like the way he and Steve had met. Friends because of simple proximity at first.

 

A postcard from Steve is due to arrive any day now. They seem to come about every two weeks, with a varying amount of delay depending on where they were mailed. Shuri hasn’t visited recently so he doesn’t have any other way of getting pertinent news on Cap’s team.

It was just like Steve to set out to be a lone ranger and then suddenly be surrounded by a group of eccentric but good people. It’s like the Howlies all over again. Bucky had been immediately glad to hear that Sam was watching Steve’s back, though the gratitude had come with a quickly-stifled flash of jealousy at the thought that it should have been him. In terms of having a wingman though, he has to admit Sam is ideal. The guy can literally fly.

A couple of months ago, Steve had told him that Natasha had joined them too. He had expressed surprise at the fact, but Bucky had seen that coming like a tank through a sniper scope. He remembers the redhead most from the airport, specifically how she had chosen Stark (the safe route) but had thrown in with Cap at the end. She was ex-KGB and he could see immediately why it was _ex_. She liked people too much. She made a terrible loner.

  

All told, it’s been over a year since he awoke from cryo and he’s filled in quite a few pieces of his memory. He hasn’t completely rid himself of that feeling of displacement though--the disconnect between what he remembers and the emotions that should accompany that. He still doesn’t feel whole, but he knows he’s much closer.

Moving out to the village has helped the healing process a lot. It solves the problem of how unnerving he finds artificial silence, and the natural sunrise and sunset cycle provided by sleeping in the tent seems to help him sleep better too. Shuri designed the tent’s woven fabric to project a force field, so he can turn the whole structure bulletproof whenever he feels the need. So far he’s only used it once, and that was for a particularly fearsome hailstorm.

He has also taken up wearing what the villagers do, ever since he discovered it was fairly simple to pre-tie and then slip into with one working arm. His hair is getting long but he feels no inclination to do anything about it. He is parting it the way he used to before the war though. The Winter Soldier parted his hair down the middle, and looking back he can’t figure out when that started. Another mystery lost to the ice, though one that almost amuses him.

Some of the results of his archive research go up on a wall of the tent, though he generally hides it all with a poster of the world. He’s also filling in yet another notebook with whatever returns to him and recording the events of his life now. He doesn’t have his collection of notebooks from Bucharest with him so he’s started rewriting some of their contents as well. Some of the notebooks are distended with article clippings and Steve’s postcards that are taped inside for safekeeping. He’s come to have so much that he never wants to lose again.

Bucky dreams now, not so much of falling, but of wandering through a dark building. It seems too vast to be a residence but it also contains rooms that appear to have been lived in. What era this labyrinthine building is from is anybody’s guess; its construction defies all categorization. His visits vary from fantastical to nightmarish, depending on what door he opens or what passage he takes. He spends one night following something delicate and catlike on a fruitless chase up and down winding stairs. He spends the next being confronted by a hall of mirrors only to find he has just a horrid blank nothingness for a face. The unpredictably wears on him more than the individual trials his brain conjures, but nothing he does will make them stop.  

Steve hadn’t wanted him to know what the Winter Soldier did—thinking the guilt would bury him alive. The fact is he has been feeling the guilt already, whether he knew the facts or not. And he finds that he can’t let go of the ghost without at least attempting to understand him. A part of him believes that perhaps knowing him will lead to laying him to rest.  

The more he learns, the more he sees something that never occurred to him before. The Winter Soldier had never been cruel. He had murdered dozens, maimed and injured even more. He had killed some of his own compatriots to preserve whatever mission was at hand. But it was done efficiently. He never toyed with anyone; he was never sadistic. Bucky has to conclude of course that this was because the Soldier had ultimately been a tool.

He had been rendered so void of personality that there was no emotion left in any of what he did--positive or negative. It is a double-edged sort of knowledge. The confirmation that he, that the Soldier, had been so very empty for so many years causes another slight regression in his progress. (He’s had a number over the past year.)

The following few days he can’t sleep and wanders the shore of the nearby lake. He won’t talk to anyone. Shuri wants to call in a psychiatrist but he still refuses to see one after Berlin. Eventually, as he always does, he pulls himself back up. He calls Steve; Steve listens, tells him _I’m here_. And as a whole, knowing what he lost finally confirms for Bucky that the people calling the shots were the ones to blame. The blood is on their hands, not his. Acknowledging that he had been powerless for years infuriates him as nearly nothing has before. But in a way it’s like cauterizing a wound left too long unattended. While the guilt inherited from the Soldier had been suffocating, Bucky’s anger is sharp and lucid. And it is his alone.

It seems a selfish sort of gamble, but he does hope that maybe he can retain some of what the Soldier learned. In ridding himself of the Soldier’s protocols he wonders if he will eventually lose all his skills. His body remembers how to fight much better than Sergeant Barnes ever could, and he can still read many more languages than he remembers studying. The royal library is extensive (even more so online, though he prefers paper) so he borrows a number of books in other languages to practice. They form a leaning tower by his favorite chair, part of a protective retreat when he needs it.  

 

He awakes from one of his dreams--a mercifully uneventful one--to the loud whisperings of the Three Musketeers. Though the children have been roundly scolded by Shuri about personal boundaries and no longer barge into his tent, they do a very bad job at letting him sleep in on any morning they have something to deliver. Not that he minds their enthusiasm in that department. The latest of Steve’s postcards, handed to him by the smallest of the children, is a photo of a white merlion statue in Singapore--meaning Steve is likely nowhere near Asia. It’s written in soft pencil.

 

Our last excursion went well. The time we took to plan was very much worth it. 

We took a day for R&R after and I wandered around the closest town.

Found a cafe by a bridge and spent some time sketching the view.

I wish I could properly describe the local architecture but I think I was able to capture it well enough.

I’ll show you later. It felt nice to draw again.

The coffee was really good too. I have to say that’s one thing that has almost universally become better.

I’ve been lucky enough to stumble into so many charming cafes that I wish I could show you.

You’d love the decor, the smells, and the people who gather in these places just to shoot the breeze.

I bet you would make friends in nearly every one.

~S

 

A smile steals onto his face as he pictures Steve sketching, slightly hunched over his paper in a way that his mother always scolded him for. It’s a rather unsteady image though, as he is more familiar with the smaller version of Steve and his charcoal-smudged fingers than the tall one and a neat case of pencils.

Bucky tapes the postcard into one of his notebooks with some colorful Japanese paper tape. Shuri has dozens of the tiny rolls spilling out of a drawer on one of her work desks and occasionally she gives him a few. He jots down a reply of sorts on the page facing the postcard.   

 

Dear Steve,

Glad to hear your opt went well and that you’re using that head of yours.

I’m not sure how I feel about you wandering about on your own but I bet a certain redhead wasn’t that far behind.

Am I going to have to teach you how to spot her?

I look forward to seeing your latest drawings.

I’m afraid I don’t get out a lot here, so I’ll be a terrible host if you ever want to sample the local cafe scene.

But I do know that we do not have a cafe called Starbucks, because I’ve heard Shuri and Okoye complain about that fact.  

As usual, you seem to have an overly high opinion of my people skills.

But you know I would stumble into just about anywhere with you.

Yours,

Bucky

 

When they can, the two of them video chat these days (Shuri had laughed for nearly two minutes straight when she found out they had no idea of the camera option for months), but answering the postcards when he gets them helps him remember what he wants to ask at a later date. He also writes down some things that he never quite gets around to saying. Better tucked away in a notebook than on the tip of his tongue.

 

 

Shuri shows up in the village a week later. She always comes with a task or a request, and this time it is because she has another prosthetic arm for him to try on.

“You’re lucky my calendar is open,” he grouses, dusting off his knees from where he had been kneeling in the garden.

“What? You turn into a social butterfly these last few weeks?”

He gives her a friendly grimace in return for her jibe, and she just laughs. He knows that he sees his younger sister reflected in her sometimes, but he’s also very aware that he finds her endearing on her own. He owes her whole family so much and he’s been giving some serious thought as to how to repay that debt.

“Come on, it’s a real beauty, I promise,” she says.

He shakes his head in defeat, puts away his garden tools, and starts following her toward her vehicle.

“Besides there’s a surprise too! Better than even I could make—though I know that’s hard to imagine.”

“A surprise?”

“Captain Rogers seems to have finally found time to drop by.”

“What?”

“Officially it’s because he wants to use some of our satellite tracking for something, but of course he’ll be staying a few days to rest up. So I’ve also come to see if you want to return to the palace for a bit too.”

“Sure…”

She pauses and takes a step back toward him.

“You okay?”

“It just feels sudden. He hasn’t been here since I woke up.”

“You’ve been in touch though? You two talk all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll be alright,” she tells him, peering up at his downturned face.

He feels a little embarrassed that a teenager sees the need to comfort him, but accepts it for what it is.

“Of course,” he says. “So when’s he supposed to arrive?”

“He might beat us there if we don’t hurry.”

Bucky’s eyebrows arch in surprise. “Well, Cap always did march to his own drum.”

 

Seeing Steve on the screen of his laptop or phone is of course nothing to seeing him in real life. He steps off the plane alone, his outfit grey with dirt and his shoulders sloped, but the moment he sees Bucky he lights up. There’s no other way to describe it. Bucky’s tried to capture it in words, but he always gets hung up on that smile. _That smile that’s only meant for me._

He can’t quite get his legs to work right so he ends up just awkwardly standing there as Steve lopes across the courtyard toward the welcome party. And then he barely gets his arm up and out of the way before he’s being crushed in a hug. He must make an odd sound as the air is squeezed out of him because Steve pulls away far too soon.

“Buck, it’s so good to--I’m sorry I should have asked before...”

Bucky loops his arm around Steve’s upper back and yanks him in again.

“S’fine,” he says into Steve’s neck.

“Okay,” Steve replies.

The second time is gentle. Steve wraps his arms around him diagonally and he can feel how Steve is adjusting his embrace to balance Bucky’s clutching one-armed hold. One of Steve’s arm is low on Bucky’s back and ends up taking some of his weight. He feels a tickling sensation on the right side of his head as Steve speaks close to his ear.

“I’m so, so sorry if this sounds funny but… you smell like you again.”

“Really?” Bucky half laughs.

“And it’s… uh, it’s great.”

Bucky shivers. _Alright, that was new._

“Must be all the dirt, I guess. You know me, never could sit indoors.”

Steve laughs, and Bucky can feel it, and that does absolutely nothing to relieve the tingling sensation that’s kind of taken up residence along his spine. It fact, it gets _much_ worse.

“And yet you did so often when I was sick…” Steve points out.

“You punk.” Bucky leans back so he can get a proper look at Steve’s face.

“Jerk,” replies Steve and grins.

There is a pointed cough from behind Bucky and they step away from each other a little red-faced. No one is giving them anything but understanding looks, but T’Challa also appears to holding Shuri’s phone out of her reach as she plies him with entreaties and threats.

Steve greets the royal family and is speaking with the queen mother when Shuri appears by Bucky’s side.

“Lab time!”

She can see he’s about to refuse so she loops her arm around his and pulls gently.

“The Captain has to go debrief! Come on!”

He catches Steve’s eye and jerks his chin toward Shuri and the direction in which she is leading him. Steve’s eyes flick over to the princess and then back to Bucky and he smiles in understanding.

“You could wave at him if you had the arm on already,” Shuri points out.

“Or you could let go of me.”

Her expression is unimpressed. All he can do is go with her.

 

The newest arm Shuri has designed for him is crafted from a matte black material. He taps at it and it seems more like ceramic than metal.

“This one is designed to be light,” she explains. “Some vibranium of course, but it’s a new compound of mine.”

She unwraps the blue cloth he uses to cover his left shoulder to get at the joint base.

“I know you said you want it to be utilitarian—not a weapon. This one has a lower lift capacity but that should translate into helping you feel like it’s a better match for your right arm.”

She picks up the prosthetic and attaches it with a turning motion. She then grabs a thin tool and adjusts it from the front and the back. He figures it’s for the electrical connection.

“I even put some pain sensors in the hand so you won’t burn or stab yourself and damage the composite.”

“Do I need to be careful with this one?”

“It can take more than a regular human hand, but yeah maybe a little.”

He nods and flexes the fingers. The arm is light and the elbow movement is nicely smooth.

She’s waiting for his reaction, so he stands and picks up a coffee mug from her desk with his left hand. He tosses the mug in the air and catches it with the same hand.

“I don’t dislike it,” he admits.

“You’re terrible,” she says, but her eyes are pleased.

“Thanks, Shuri.”

“Get out of here.” She shoos him toward the door. “You need to give the Captain a tour.”

 

While Steve has seen the tent and the farm through a smartphone camera, Bucky does want to show him the nearby village and his garden. The lake by where he lives is lovely at sunset too. He makes his way to the palace suite that is still designated his. It’s the same one in which he and Steve stayed when they first arrived in Wakanda. It also holds the belongings that he never uses. He has a whole modern wardrobe of jeans, shirts, a suit and whatever else Shuri or other members of the family have given him. He washes his face and, with the use of two hands, is able to put his hair half up, twisting the upper part around in a loop. He grabs dark jeans and a plain white tee from the closet and slips them on.

Once he finds Steve (who still wears t-shirts that seem too small for him) and they leave the palace to head out to village, they don’t return for hours. Steve meets the Three Musketeers and they in turn adore him. The villagers also insist on having them stay for dinner so it’s past nightfall by the time they return to their palace rooms.

Steve takes a military style shower and is in and out of the bathroom in minutes. Then he’s off to rummage around in the kitchen for something to appease his super fast metabolism. Bucky decides, a bit on a whim, that wants to take a bath since he hasn’t had one in a while. He then spends nearly five minutes searching for something that locks or slides out of place on the arm.

 _Damn, I have no idea how to get this off._ Usually when he tests a new design, he stops by the lab before coming back to his rooms, or Shuri comes and finds him. It had slipped his mind with Steve here, and she was probably being considerate of their time together. Or she had become absorbed in another experiment that evening. That was also a distinct possibility.

“Steve…?” He sticks his head out of the bathroom.

Steve is reading one of the erstwhile Penguin Classics from when Bucky had been on enforced rest. At the sound of Bucky’s voice his head pops up from behind the back of the couch.

“You need something?”

“This is gonna sound stupid, but could you help me get this arm off?”

Steve smiles before he can help it, but then nods seriously.

“Don’t even pretend this isn’t a damfool situation, Rogers.”

“Yes, sir.” That mischievous grin is back.

Bucky shakes his head in exasperation and starts pulling his shirt off. He’s working it over his head when suddenly it’s pulled up off him in one smooth motion. He gapes slightly at Steve, who is only a few inches away now and holding his shirt.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Sure.”

Bucky turns around and straightens the metal arm perpendicular to the floor.

“Usually, she puts the catch right here in the front of the shoulder joint, but I can’t seem to find it so I’m guessing it’s on the back.”

“Okay…”

Steve grabs the arm at the elbow to support its weight and then runs his fingers over the shoulder joint. A few times his fingers reach the edge of the arm and brush lightly over Bucky’s skin. Bucky glances back at him, but he’s completely focused on the arm.

“This thing is amazing…”

“Shuri knows her stuff.”

“Do you like this one?”

He shrugs lightly and Steve pauses in his inspection.

“You don’t want a new arm?”

Bucky shifts his weight but doesn’t reply.

“Isn’t it hard doing everything with just one?”

“Yeah, it’s not great. But I guess I don’t like feeling… augmented.”

Steve purses his lips and goes back to his inspection.

“What?” Bucky asks. “Why are you clamming up?”

“It’s not my place to say.”

“When’s that ever stopped you?”

Suddenly, Steve’s eyes narrow and he presses his thumb into the arm, then tightens his grip on the elbow and twists. The weight of the prosthetic is lifted off and Bucky turns to face Steve.

“Tell me,” Bucky demands.

Steve is holding the arm and testing its metallic fingers.

“Remember when I had those really bad asthma attacks?”

Bucky nods. He’s regained the memories of the time he had tried to help Steve during a really bad episode in grade school--and that he had later lain awake thinking he had been useless.

“And remember how I caught the flu every year, was the only kid on the block to get scarlet fever, was partially color-blind, and probably a tuberculosis carrier?”

Bucky nearly rolls his eyes. _I have your file memorized by now, you numbskull._

“The point is pretty much all of me is augmented and it kept me alive.”

Steve sets the metal arm carefully on the top of a nearby bookshelf.

“But I know it’s about choosing it for yourself--the way I did.”

He reaches out and grabs Bucky’s shoulder just to squeeze it once and let go.  

“I want--and that’s all it comes down to--I want us to be able to do so much together, and for you to do anything you want without having to settle. But if you don’t feel it’s a limit, then it’s not for me to say otherwise.”

After a moment, Bucky replies, “Well, maybe I just haven’t found one that works for me yet...”

“Maybe so.”

There’s another beat of silence before he asks, “Hey, help me find that waterproof cover.”

Steve somehow knows exactly what he’s talking about. He locates the black cover and slips it snugly over the joint on Bucky’s shoulder. Then Bucky turns on the tap in the bathtub.

“There’s bath salts and fancy stuff, but I’ve never used any. Shuri says there’s some for joint pain, but also says I shouldn’t get my shoulder too wet before she’s finished redoing the whole socket, so I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”

He grins over his shoulder at Steve, who is leaning on the doorframe. He looks thoughtful, then takes a hesitant step forward.

“Your hair…?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him.

“Do you want it... more up?” Steve asks. “Out of your way, I mean.”

He looks a little out of his depth; Bucky can’t help but smile.

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

He pulls the hair tie out and holds it up for Steve. He takes it and sits on the closed toilet lid, while Bucky stays perched on the edge of the bathtub.

“Put it in a ponytail first, but don’t loop the tie tight. Just once or twice around.”

Steve runs his fingers through the wavy strands to smooth them out. He perhaps does it a few more times than seems strictly necessary, but Bucky isn’t about to tease him because he’s just discovered it feels fantastic. He remembers Steve’s hands when they were small and knobby, always cold from terrible blood flow. Now as one hand gathers all his hair together, the other is big enough to cradle the whole base of his skull. He closes his eyes to focus on how grounding it feels.

“Bucky?”

_Oops, shit. A little too focused._

“You have it in a ponytail?”

“Yeah.”

“Now loop the hair around where the tie is and tuck the ends into it.”

He can feel Steve looping the hair and holding it in place. Then some tugging and some patting of strands.

“It’s kinda messy…”

“It’s called a messy bun, Steve, that’s okay.”

He throws Steve a wink and the blond ducks his head.

“Never thought I’d have to know how to do that,” Steve says after a moment.

“I’m sure it’ll come in handy for you someday.” _For some lucky lady._

“It’s handy now, isn’t it?”

Bucky is testing the temperature of the bath water so can’t see Steve’s face. But his voice sounds off.

“Of course. I just meant--”

“I can guess what you meant.”

Bucky swings around but it’s too late. There’s only the soft click of the bathroom door closing. _What the hell…? I don’t see why that’s something to get upset about. I’m glad to have you back, but I’m not dumb enough to think I can keep you._

He slips out of the rest of his clothes and plops into the water. He sinks down and warms the top of his shoulders briefly, then scoots up against the head of the tub to keep his left shoulder above water. The heat loosens his back muscles and he closes his eyes and sighs lightly. The prosthetic arms that Shuri has been making for him all weigh significantly less than the Soldier’s, but he also isn’t currently brainwashed into ignoring muscle stress and the pain that working the old prosthetic had entailed. The new ones don’t hurt him but they do still aggravate old pain; he hasn’t quite built the right muscles back up yet.

He stays in the water until it begins to cool. Glancing over at the towel rack, he sees it is depressingly empty. He groans in frustration and sinks lower in the tub. He is weighing his options when there’s a light knock on the door. _Captain America to the rescue._

“Yeah?”

“I think you forgot your towel…”

“Affirmative.”

“Should I…?”

“Just put it on the toilet.”

“I brought you something to change into too.”

“Thanks, pal.”

Bucky can tell Steve is partially doing this as an apologetic gesture for even hinting at confrontation. And it’s actually pissing him off more than what Steve said. He’s ready to have any kind of conversation they need to about the future or boundaries or whatever. But Steve seems to be dancing around this subject, when usually they would just argue about anything at any time. Bucky knows, though, that he can’t just glare at him and expect him to piece all it together.

Steve has nearly closed the door again when he calls out to him.

“Hey, let’s watch a movie. You can pick.”

“Roger that.”

Steve’s voice has that overly positive ring to it that means he’s distracted. Bucky steps out of the tub and dries off, giving extra attention to his left shoulder, as always. He pulls on the clothes Steve brought. While the Adidas sweatpants are his (from Shuri), he is pretty sure the shirt is Steve’s. It’s soft from too many washes and slightly loose in the shoulders.

Steve has chosen _Jurassic Park_ and after he pops the DVD in the player, he begins looking for the remote.

While watching him search is amusing, Bucky finally informs him: “It’s voice controlled. Shuri has this strange hang up about remotes.”

“Oh...”

He then half-listens to Steve talking his way through getting the movie started as he grabs a couple beers from the suite’s fridge. There’s a spoon and an empty bowl that’s been quickly rinsed in the sink, and half a sliced apple on a plate on the countertop. With Steve here, the space feels lived in. At long last, everything’s so normal that he almost wants to let his irritation subside. Almost.  

 

 _“Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn't stop to think if they should!_ ”

Bucky chuckles darkly from his side of the couch, where he is ensconced in a pile of pillows.

“You know... this uh, Dr. Malcolm reminds me of Tony in some ways,” Steve comments. “But that’s not really something I could see Tony saying.”

“You talk to him recently?”

Steve shakes his head. “I gave him a burner phone but he’s never used it.”

“He hasn’t come after you though. Or me.”

Steve looks like he is trying to shift his expression from disappointed to just thoughtful. He fails.

“I can’t claim to know the guy, but I know you respect him. If you two had something, it’ll work out in the end.”

“Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky gives him a friendly smack on the shoulder as he gets up for more beer. The room quiets when Steve pauses the movie.

“I’m just glad I didn’t drive away all your friends though,” Bucky says. He’s returned, grasping two beers around the bottle necks, and hands one to Steve.

Steve makes an unfamiliar, rueful sort of expression. “Well, Captain America has always had more friends than Steve Rogers.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“You would, but that’s because I’ve only always had you, Buck.”

“You’re still the same guy, scrawny or not,” Bucky insists. “But sure, maybe you’re easier to spot now.”

“Yeah, I don’t feel invisible anymore, that’s for sure,” Steve says, and he seems pleased about it.

Bucky takes a swig of his beer. _Here goes nothing…_

“You ever see that Sharon after?”

“What…?”

“It isn’t rocket science, Steve, she seemed to like you. And you did kiss her.”

“That was… it’s been a while. I’ve been busy.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just waits. He watches Steve pick at the label on his beer bottle, catch himself doing so, stop, and then start again.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” Steve asks finally.

Bucky puts his beer on the side table and rearranges the couch pillows into less of a barricade.

“I have nothing going on, if that’s what you mean—not that I haven’t had offers.”

He’s about to throw in a wink for good measure, but he gets a look at Steve’s face and stops dead in his mental tracks. Steve looks downright crestfallen. _Okay, not an area for joking around apparently._

“I’m just saying, I’m glad you have other people now,” explains Bucky. “And yeah, if you had gone to visit someone else on your first real vacation I wouldn’t have liked it, but from now on I don’t want you to think you owe me all your time. I’m alright here.”

The label on Steve’s bottle has met an untimely demise. Bucky leans over and rests his hand on Steve’s knee.

“You said earlier you didn’t want me to limit myself,” Bucky says. “I don’t want you to either. You know, someday you’ll find someone--”

“I found someone. I found you.”

Bucky blinks at him.

“It took me way too long, but I don’t regret it. I never will.”

“But you don’t mean that the way I do…”

“Bucky, I do.”

Steve looks certain, even as his grip on that poor beer bottle tightens dangerously.

“I don’t know what this means for us, and I know you might feel differently and I… I will respect that.” Steve swallows hard. “But for my part, I don’t need anyone else. Just you.”

Bucky takes a deep breath. “Okay, first off, pal, give me that bottle because I know you heal fast but I don’t want blood on the couch when that shatters.”

He taps Steve’s hand lightly and the death grip loosens. Steve places the bottle on the floor, but now he’s opening and closing his empty fist.

_I’m sorry, Stevie, but I have to know. From now on, I always have to be sure._

“So what about Peggy?”

Steve stills. “She’s gone.”

“But you loved her?”

“Yes… I still do.”

Steve launches himself from the couch and starts pacing.

“If we had all survived the war, who knows,” Steve says. “Maybe I could have married her...”

“I’m sorry, Steve, I just…”

“I get it…” Steve replies hastily. “It’s a shock, I’m sure--”

“No, about Peggy, I mean. Sorry to drag that up.”

Steve stops, anchorless, in the middle of the room. Bucky motions him back to the couch and he comes, drawn in, but his arms are folded across his chest now.

“I’ve been muddling around in the past for months now, Steve, I know how it feels to want something back in one piece...”

Steve shakes his head slightly, eyes distant. “Before I joined the Avengers, I wasted too much time thinking about what might have been. I came out of the ice and had all these years ahead of me, but it sometimes felt like a life sentence. Like it was too long to even survive. But now…”

He focuses his gaze on Bucky and it’s both easy to see what his eyes say and hard to take it in.

“I don’t believe in as many things as I used to,” Steve admits, and Bucky hates that he can see how that hurts him. “But I still believe in the worth of people. I still feel my life is good for something because of the people around me, and those I’ve been able to help.”

“Steve,” he interjects. “Your life is worth something because it’s yours.”

“And see, that’s why I need you... my focus.” Steve gives him a smile finally, though it’s a bit fragile.

_All those years you remembered me, and thought you were alone._

There are so many things Bucky left unsaid because it was never the right time--they were too young, they weren’t alone, they were fighting a war--and here it is, the time to say them, and he’s still not sure he can find the words he needs. Steve is waiting though; he has to say it. If he doesn’t now, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’ll regret it. Because he has already felt that weight of that despair once, when he thought Hydra was going to kill him. He discards the pillow he’s been holding to his chest and sits up straight.

“I have loved you ever since we were kids,” he starts, and he can see Steve go rigid, mirroring his pose. “I’ve been in love with you since the summer I was eighteen. I was gonna come back from the war a hero and get us a place of our own. I was gonna take care of you. But now that all seems so… small? So foolish.”

“It’s not, it’s not,” says Steve softly.

“I don’t have a big heart like yours. I didn’t care about the world when I went to war, I cared about my family, my unit, _you_. And when you showed up in those spangles, leading like you always shoulda been, I felt like I was gonna go nuts with jealousy. All these guys flocking to you, all these girls flirting with you…”

Steve has the gall to look disbelieving.  

“And when I realized you and Peggy were--how you felt about her--of course, I wanted you to be happy. But I’m no saint. I was still coming to grips with it when we decided to go after Zola. And well… the rest is history.”

After a moment, Bucky holds out his right hand, palm up. Steve takes the offered hand immediately, curls his fingers around Bucky’s.

“You deserve better, Stevie, but you’ve got me,” Bucky tells him. “And you always will.”

“I told you, I don’t want anyone else.”   

“Well you’re doomed now, you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

They sit there, content for a moment just to be. Then Steve leans forward slightly and says  _I love you too, Buck_  as if it's easy as breathing. As if it’s the most matter of fact thing in the world.

_Maybe someday it will be--maybe someday I will have finally lived long enough that it'll always feel true._

“You drive me crazy…” murmurs Bucky and pulls Steve to him.

 

It’s after eleven PM but they decide to restart the movie anyway. They rearrange their clothing and then settle back on the couch. Bucky slings his legs over Steve’s lap, while Steve’s hand comes to rest on the back of Bucky’s neck.

“One could make an argument for siding with the dinosaurs,” Bucky announces after a while.

“Because they find modernity a bit much?”

“Because they didn’t asked to be revived and then caged up.”

Steve ruffles his hair, a teasing gesture that turns comforting.

“Think I should cut it?” Bucky asks, though he has his suspicions as to Steve’s opinion.

Steve glances over at him. “I think a one-armed man has more things to worry about than army regulation haircuts.”

“You got a smart mouth on you, Rogers. It’s gonna get you in trouble some day.”

Steve bites his bottom lip in a way that brings the phrase _begging for it_ unbidden to Bucky’s mind, but he simply looks him straight in those summer blue eyes and jabs him in the ribs.  

“Always a jerk!” gasps Steve.

“You’re like a dog with a bone. What happened to it being my decision?”

“It _is_ your decision. But I’m gonna keep bringing it up.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and collapses back against the couch, which also means back onto Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s arm snakes around his waist.  

"Were we ever like this before?" Bucky asks.

He can't recall any similar moments but he's not going to rule that out immediately.

"Never," replies Steve.

_Good to know I didn’t lose any memories of what he looks like under me._

Bucky tosses out a thought he’s been mulling over. "Would we ever have been…?”

Steve doesn't respond to this immediately. His eyebrows dip into a slight frown and he reaches for Bucky's hand.

"I don’t know. It was another time," he finally says.

Bucky intertwines their fingers. He isn’t hurt by the admission; he doesn’t have any illusions about how hard it would have been for them.

“Well, I’ll add that to reasons to appreciate the 21st century," Bucky says. "I've certainly got all I want from the past."

Steve still looks pensive. So Bucky stretches forward and plants a kiss on the edge of his jaw. Of course there is a part of him that wishes he could have kissed this man years ago, every night maybe, but he means what he says. He’s done regretting the past.

On the TV screen, the lead paleontologist is holding up a cracked dinosaur eggshell in awe.

_“Look... life found a way.”_

Watching the screen sideways, with his head tucked in the curve of Steve’s neck, Bucky smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Just FYI, a “Dear John” letter was a letter in which a wife or girlfriend of a man stationed overseas told him that their relationship was over—usually with the implication that she had found someone else. The phrase was probably coined by American GIs during World War II.


End file.
